Close
by spanglecap
Summary: A series of interconnecting one shots forming a larger, cohesive narrative. Cross posted from Ao3 Ch.1 - Natasha likes how close Steve gets when he covers them both with his shield. Not that she'd ever let him know it.
1. Chapter 1

Natasha likes the way Steve almost unconsciously reaches for her when something explodes around them.

She likes the way he'll tuck her body against his, enveloping her almost completely. The way her fingers brush against his pulse as she reaches around his neck, and how he'll duck his head down next to hers.

Crouched against him, she likes the way his solid body muffles the sound of the blast. She can smell smoke and dust and gasoline but for some reason Steve's musk always breaks through, comforting and inviting. He smells of army regulation soap and of something inherently masculine, but at the same time of sweat, grime and fighting and it's not the slightest bit unpleasant.

She likes the way his arms feel around her, holding tight and keeping her still. Keeping her safe. Keeping her so close. She likes the way his shield covers both of them, an impenetrable barrier, but really it feels like Steve is protecting her more than the shield ever could. Like even if he didn't have the shield he would still throw himself around her without hesitation.

One thing she definitely doesn't like though, is how quickly the moment fades. The threat passes and he's already moving, drawing away from her. Already fighting. Moving boulders bigger than himself. Doing whatever it is he needs to be doing to make sure everyone else is safe too. She doesn't like the way in which his presence slips from her like smoke, but she carries on regardless because he's counting on her to have his back. He trusts her and she can't let him down.

And Nat can't help it if she's mentally looking forward to the next time he'll pull her into his arms.

Not that she would ever tell him any of this.

Steve just wishes it didn't take an explosion or collapsing building to get so close to her.


	2. Chapter 2

_An: There's a teeny bit of blood in this chapter but nothing too graphic!_

* * *

Natasha is pissed off.

At Steve.

Steve stumbles back into the quinjet, and despite her anger Natasha finds herself steadying him. His right hand is pressed to his left shoulder, trying to keep blood in his body.

An hour ago, they had broken into an underground bunker, shutting down a ring of mercenaries-turned-arms-dealers who had joined forces and found themselves with a substantial amount of biological weapons to sell to the highest bidder. Fifty minutes ago, an alarm had sounded throughout the base. Twenty minutes ago, one of the mercs on the floor Natasha thought was already dead had spent his last breath on raising his gun and pulling the trigger. Only Steve had pushed her back, stepping into her place before she even knew what was happening. His shield had been on the other side of the room.

Hence why Natasha is pissed at him. She's angry that she'd grown complacent and there's a bullet lodged in his shoulder because of her overconfidence. She hates the thought that Steve sees her as some damsel in distress. She hates that for one horrifying moment, when that gunshot echoed through the room and she turned back to see Steve fall to his knees, gasping, she had feared the worst. She hates how her body had shaken with fear, terrified at the thought that he wasn't going to get back up. And if she's angry to hide all of that, well, that's nobody's business but hers.

Steve grunts in pain as Natasha none too gently pushes him to a seat and goes to grab a medikit. He starts to unfasten his uniform but realises he can't lift his arm above waist level without pain shooting through his body. He takes his helmet off with one hand instead. She slides into the seat next to him, her brow furrowed and lips set in a firm line. Thankfully this time her touch is gentle as she carefully examines his shoulder, eyes narrowed.

Watching as Natasha turns back to rummage in the medipack, Steve can't help but wonder why she seems so angry with him. Maybe he's done something obvious but the pain has made his thoughts hazy and he can't quite figure out what it could have been. Suddenly the dull throbbing in his shoulder seems like nothing compared to the sinking feeling in his stomach.

Steve hides his grimace as she peels away the fabric from the edge of the wound and sets about cutting away the fabric of his suit. He hisses as she pours alcohol on it and she glares at him.

"You've already started healing around the bullet," she says matter-of-factly, and Steve can't stand the coldness and distance in her voice. "I'll need to take it out unless you want it scraping against the bone every time you raise your arm."

Natasha doesn't speak again as she draws out a long pair of surgical tweezers and he braces himself. He chokes back a cry and the metal arm of the chair creaks and snaps under the pressure of his right hand as she digs through the flesh. Steve decides to concentrate instead on how her vibrant green eyes seem a little shinier than usual, or is it just him imagining things? She brings the bullet out, thankfully still in one piece. He lets out a breath he didn't realise he was holding, feeling lightheaded after the sudden surge of pressure and pain. She jabs him in the leg with what he thinks (or hopes) is morphine and places a dressing over the wound.

He lays his right hand over it, pressing down even though it doesn't seem to be bleeding profusely anymore. It'll have to do until they get back to base and get someone to look at it. Deciding to be bold, he breaks the silence.

"Nat?" She glances at him but doesn't answer. "You know, usually when someone takes a bullet for you, you're not angry at them."

He can see her purse her lips out of the corner of his eye and it looks like she's having an internal battle whether or not to snap at him. She does, after a moment's deliberation.

"I didn't need saving," she says harshly. "I've been shot before." Ah. So that's it.

"You know that's not why I did it," he says earnestly. He can tell she doesn't buy it.

"I don't need someone to take bullets for me," she bites back. He leans forward and looks across at her, hoping if she looks at him she'll see his sincerity.

"Nat, if there's a chance that I can take the hit instead of one of my team, then I'm going to take it, every time," he says firmly. And also, but he doesn't dare tell her, because he doesn't know what he would have done if the bullet was in her head and not in his shoulder. "Doesn't matter if it's you or Clint or anyone else."

She's quiet and it looks like he's gotten through to her. He's never lied to her and she knows it. His features soften into a slight smile, gently bumping his thigh against hers.

"Redhead or not," he adds, still feeling more than bold.

Honestly, he doesn't know where this sudden burst of confidence is coming from, but he's going to go with it. Maybe it's the adrenaline that comes with getting shot. Maybe it's the morphine she just gave him. The corner of her mouth twitches up, she rolls her eyes and he can see he's forgiven. He loves that about her. As much as she can seem colder than a Russian winter, he finds it glorious that, like flipping a switch, with the barest hint of a smile she can send a warmth through him the likes of which he's never felt.

"Got a thing for redheads then, do you, Rogers?" she teases dryly, gathering up the medikit and putting it away.

"Just one," he says. "Tends to not like it if you take a bullet for her though."

There's something akin to excitement bubbling in his stomach as he sees Natasha's brain sputter for a response, as surprised as he is by his sudden brashness. It's only for a millisecond and he doesn't think she knows he saw it, and then her usual self-assured smirk is back on her face.

"Well," she says, heading to the cockpit. "Good thing she's way out of your league then, isn't it?"

Steve sighs and rests his head against the wall, closing his eyes as he hears the engine starting up.

"Yeah, and don't I know it," he mutters to himself.

But he remembers how her eyes had seemed glassy a moment ago, and thinks to himself that maybe she isn't as distant as she pretends to be.

* * *

 _Hope you enjoyed!_


	3. Chapter 3

"It's this one."

Steve looks across at her confident verdict to see her bringing her hands up to rest on her stomach. She's lying next to him, gazing at the ceiling, on a mattress in Ikea.

Natasha had declared it a crime when she found out he was living this century and he hadn't been to Ikea yet. And, when he let slip that he hadn't been sleeping too well on his marshmallow of a bed, it was decided. Killing two birds with one mattress, she had said. What feels like half a day has passed already and they haven't even made it out of the bed department. Steve isn't too certain that he likes the place. It's like time has a new meaning here.

"I'm not sure," he replies, looking back at the blank ceiling and fidgeting a bit. The mattress is definitely firmer than his current one, and probably the best one out of the dozens they have tried already, but can he sleep on it? There's no way of knowing, short of falling asleep in the store, which he's pretty sure is frowned upon.

"Remember, you have ninety days to bring it back if you don't like it and swap it for another one," she says, as if reading his thoughts and sounding like an employee.

Steve ponders for a moment. He thinks he's narrowed it down to two.

"Let's try the other one more time. Where was it again?" he asks, sitting up and finding himself unable to recall in the sea of beds. Last time he'd seen so many beds together there'd been a war on and the thought is a little disorientating. Natasha slips off the mattress and calls back over her shoulder.

"Aw, having trouble remembering in your old age? Maybe we should get you a memory foam mattress."

He rolls his eyes at her and follows, plonking himself down on the slightly firmer mattress and wondering if Natasha would ever run out of terrible jokes about his age. He doesn't see it happening any time this century. Yet another attendant walks over to them but is quickly turned away like the rest by Natasha's rather unique social skills.

Steve closes his eyes, tries to imagine falling asleep and that's when he finally figures out what it is that's bugging him about the 's a distinct lack of clocks. Ones that display the correct time anyway. There's cheesy songs playing on a loop the radio and there aren't any windows. Everything is bright and shiny and demands your attention. It's like a casino, or Tony's lab.

He's pulled from his thoughts when Natasha leans across flicks him on the shoulder. She's resting on one elbow and fixing him with an amused look on her face. He wonders for a moment if this is what it would be like to wake up with her. To open his eyes and see that fiery hair and clever smile. His heart stutters.

"Hurry up and choose one, I told that attendant I was going to divorce you if we don't make a decision soon," she says.

He still isn't sure why she feels the need to give them a cover story when they're just out looking at beds, but he knows better than to question her and doesn't press the matter. Let her have her games. God knows there's no room for such things most of the time with the kind of lives they lead.

"The other one," Steve sighs, defeated. Mumbling something about not being married as he gets up, Natasha ignores him and beckons to the assistant. A lump forms in his throat as she slips her hand into his.

"What are you doing?" Steve asks, mildly perplexed but hardly complaining.

"Married people hold hands, Steve," she says dryly, as if he's just asked her whether or not the sky is blue. They're not married, but it's nice anyway, the way her hand fits in his, and Steve doesn't object as he lets her wrap things up with the assistant and makes a move to leave, still holding his hand.

"Let's go to the kitchen department before we go, I need some new knives," she says casually.

He doesn't ask if she means for cooking or killing, but he hopes it's the former. He doesn't think Ikea kitchen knives would be good for throwing, but what does he know? It's the first time he's been here.

"I still can't believe you put 'Go to Ikea' on my list," he huffs, changing the subject. Not that he's actually annoyed at her. Quite the opposite in fact. His chest feels light because the skin of her palm is warm and soft. Her slender fingers are interlocked with his and it's the first time she's done such a thing outside of a mission.

"Well, now you can cross it off your list," she retorts. "Besides, it's part of the 21st century experience."

"What, consumerist-driven showroom aesthetics so everyone's lives look like dollhouses?"

"Precisely," she says, flashing that sly half smile at him. "Don't you know the government want to control everyone? It's a worldwide plot to get everyone to buy the same sofa."

Steve suppresses another sigh. Even though he doesn't really like the place, he's glad she's the one who dragged him here.

She's unusually quiet as they pass through the children's department, and Steve resists the urge to stop and pick up one of the plushies that resembles Hulk. There's a pained look in her eyes which he doesn't think he'd notice if he wasn't so used to her subtleties and expressions. He tries not to think about what it could mean, but he doesn't miss how the grip on his hand tenses a fraction and her shoulders stiffen when a child behind them screams with laughter and delight. He picks up the pace slightly, deciding it's best to get out of this particlar part of the store.

They leave the department and enter the almost clinical looking kitchen aisles, and the look in her eyes is gone. Her features are relaxed, as they were before, like it was never there. But she had let the mask slip and he knows he didn't imagine it.

Suddenly he feels uncomfortable and wonders just how much she's never said.

He squeezes her hand reassuringly, and hopes that one day she'll tell him.

* * *

 _Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed!_


End file.
